


you make me feel

by beastlyboop



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Age Difference, DFAB reader, Dirty Talk, F/M, Height difference, Loss of Virginity, No Condoms Allowed, Oral Sex, Shyness, Smut, Summerween, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Virginity, request, shy reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 22:29:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11344392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastlyboop/pseuds/beastlyboop
Summary: Halfway through your friend’s Summerween party and your first glass of wine, which you hold precariously in one hand, you find yourself digging through your purse for your phone. You only have a moment to register that you have two missed calls before you answer, clumsily licking at the spilled wine trickling down your wrist as you listen to the man on the other end of the line. He’s brief, desperate, and slightly out of breath, and he needs your help. Begs, even. You find yourself emboldened by either the alcohol or the tone of his voice and ask if this will be paid overtime. After a few seconds of tense silence he grunts analright, but you better get over here before I change my mind.





	you make me feel

**Author's Note:**

> request were for loss of virginity, shy virgin dfab!reader, dressing up as something sexy for summerween that makes stan finally make a move, height difference, and dirty talk
> 
> [on tumblr](https://beastlybutts.tumblr.com/post/161723832735/you-make-me-feel-grunkle-stan-x-reader)

Halfway through your friend’s Summerween party and your first glass of wine, which you hold precariously in one hand, you find yourself digging through your purse for your phone. You only have a moment to register that you have two missed calls before you answer, clumsily licking at the spilled wine trickling down your wrist as you listen to the man on the other end of the line. He’s brief, desperate, and slightly out of breath, and he needs your help. Begs, even. You find yourself emboldened by either the alcohol or the tone of his voice and ask if this will be paid overtime. After a few seconds of tense silence he grunts an _alright, but you better get over here before I change my mind._

It’s that and your admittedly pushover-ish nature that has you leaving the party early and starting the short and very careful drive out of the city and into the forest. There isn’t much to keep you at the party anyway. If you’re being honest you didn’t want to go in the first place, since you barely know any of the people that your more outgoing friends had invited. It’s only the guilt trip they laid on you for the past month and the promise of free drinks that had gotten you to leave the house at all.

The windows are down as you drive, the warm summer air offering some relief from the stifling heat, cooling the sweat on your brow. Your headlights guide the way through the tall trees that stare back at you with dark eyes, and you’re glad you only had a little to drink or else you’d really be freaked out. As it is, you’re only a _little_ freaked out. You keep both hands firm on the wheel…just in case.

For once, you have a hard time finding a parking spot when you get to work. You end up pulling around the back next to the boss’s own ride, slipping between the two vehicles and hurrying past a line of customers and around to the gift shop entrance. You regret not going home to change before heading to work, realizing now that while your costume is only _slightly_ work-inappropriate, it _is_ hot as hell. The Mystery Shack doesn’t have any air conditioning to speak of, so you can only imagine what it’s going to be like at the end of the night. You pull down on the hem of your skirt self-consciously before you go in, glad that you had the foresight to wear tights.

Stan gives you a smile from behind the register as he sees you, lifting his fez and running a hand back through his grey hair. He looks at you from head to toe and back again, and you feel your face warm even as you smile sheepishly and shrug, feeling the irony of your sexy witch costume fall flat– it wasn’t meant to be seen by anyone outside of your immediate friend group, who are all likewise dressed as sexy doctors, cops, and bees.

The costume isn’t meant to be worn for long, only long enough to get a few laughs, and under the sobering overhead lights of the gift shop, and outside of the protective group of friends you’d coordinated with, it leaves you feeling exposed.

The dark top is more low cut than you would normally wear, and tighter, though the skirt is flattering enough to cover your stomach and hips when worn high up on the waist. The little petticoat beneath provides some poof, which was fun at the party, but has since become increasingly uncomfortable. The tights are, well, just that: _tight._ Black. Ripped and torn in places to show the fishnet underneath. The tiny cape does little else but make you look cool, and the big black hat as well, all spider webs and plastic spiders hanging down. You’ve had to swat them out of your face several times already.

“You didn’t have to dress up for me, ya know,” he says with a smile as he hands a customer their change. You attempt to explain the costume while the two of you do the delicate dance that is changing places, but you find yourself a little tongue tied while trying to make room for him to leave while taking over the register. And the customer next in line is asking so many questions about the merchandise that you almost don’t notice the way Stan’s hand lingers on the small of your back as he scoots past.

The next moment he claps an appreciative hand on your shoulder and leans in to whisper a quick _thanks, kid,_ his warm breath ghosting over your ear only for a moment before he’s gone. Before he leaves through the door at the end of the room he lifts his fez and gives you a wink– at least you _think_ it’s a wink, it’s hard to tell with the eye patch. The goosebumps on your neck disappear a few minutes after he does.

_x the day before x_

He’d promised that you wouldn’t have to work Summerween for at least the week leading up to it, and as you’d naively done for the past several holidays, you believed him. He’d promised that you would have time to go trick-or-treating, _or whatever it is young people do these days,_ he’d added.

Summerween Eve you found yourself helping him bring down boxes of decorations from the attic of the Shack, as well as a few disassembled seasonal exhibits such as Gravity Falls’ own Man-Cat, half man, half cat, all freaky. Following him back down the stairs wasn’t as easy as following him up, especially when you had a heavy box held in your arms, so you took your time. More confident in his own steps, he was down and back up again by the time you made it halfway down the stairs.

“Movin’ like molasses, kid,” he said, standing on the step below you with a smile. You tried to apologize but he didn’t let you, waved it away, and while you’ve found yourself doing that a lot less since you started working for him, it was a hard habit to break.

“Can I get through here?” He asks, and the two large hands you suddenly found on your waist moved you to the side. He made his way up the stairs behind you and the red in your face lasted much longer than the feeling of his hands on you, though they were both gone by the time you made it downstairs.

_x present day x_

You have everyone rung up in half the time it would have taken him to do it and you feel a sense of pride as you watch the last paying customer leave the gift shop only moments before he leads the next group in from the tour. You smile and give him a nod, if only to let him know you have a handle on thing, and the next time you look back at where he was he’s already gone.

You manage to clean up the counter a bit between groups, discarding empty coffee cups and balled up receipts, and you wonder how long he waited to call you. You both know he’s better at putting on a show than doing menial work like customer service. You tidy up the cash drawer, laughing softly to yourself as you straighten out some of the more crumpled bills, imagining him stuffing them inside in a hurry as he tried to ring up customers.

The groups get smaller and smaller as the night goes on, and while there _are_ a few costumed customers, they’re few and far between. You do feel a little better knowing you aren’t the only person who looks like a complete idiot, though. 

Once it slows down you take to tidying up the rest of the shop, and with your sleeves pushed up to your elbows, you busy yourself sweeping up. You’re really only sweeping the dirt out the open gift shop door, not confident enough in the integrity of your outfit to not tear into pieces if you bend down with the dustpan.

“Now _that’s_ a sight.”

You jump at the sound of his voice and turn to see Stan in the doorway leading to the exhibits, lifting his fez to pull his eye patch off with a smile.

“A witch with a broom,” he clarifies. You smile back and start sweeping again, and you try to pretend he’s not there, if only so you don’t get flustered. You’re too prone to clumsiness if you’re nervous, as you often are when you know someone’s looking at you, but his gaze isn’t as judgmental as it is thoughtful. If anything that makes you even more nervous.

You catch the broom on a shirt rack and drop it, and when you bend to pick it up you’re glad to find that the costume doesn’t _immediately_ burst into pieces under stress, though you do feel one of the rips in your leggings tear, leaving a big hole over the back of your thigh. The floor creaks behind you but when you stand back up, you find yourself alone again.

x

It’s been almost an hour since the last tour group came through and you’re flipping through the pages of an old magazine when Stan sets a cup of coffee on the counter next to you. You smile up at him and say thanks, downing the drink which he’s made especially sugary– just the way you like it.

“You’re not trying to keep me awake because more people are coming, are you?”

He laughs and shakes his head, and assures you there’s no one else. _No one left,_ he says, thumbing his way through a stack of bills he pulls out of his jacket. You hand him the money from the till with one hand while you sip your coffee.

“Thanks again, y’know I couldn’t have done it without ya,” he says, pausing his counting to look at you.

“Oh…no problem,” you say, feeling a little warm from the coffee and the look on his face. You’re not used to such sincerity, especially not from him. “I wasn’t…doing anything anyway.”

“You weren’t doing anything? So these are your pajamas?” He asks, gesturing to the costume with a smile, eyebrows raised.

You just chuckle and shake your head and say that, okay, maybe you _were_ doing _something._ “..Everyone was dressed like this.”

“Sorry I missed that,” he chuckles, and you just smile and roll your eyes.

You go back to reading the magazine and nursing your coffee while he finishes counting the money, only the soft swish of his fingers on the bills and the turning of the pages breaking the silence.

“That’s a nice costume, y’know…Ya look real nice.”

You don’t look up as you snort and say thanks, and it takes a moment for it to really click. When you look back up you meet his eyes for a moment and then look away, smiling sheepishly. 

“I mean, thank you,” you say, looking back down at your hands, the magazine, _anything,_ as you tell him you know it’s a stupid costume.

“No, really. You look…good.” It’s the way he says _good_ that makes you look back up at him. He smiles down at you in that way you like so much and takes his hat off, running a hand back through his hair.

“Whadda ya think of _my_ costume?” He asks, straightening the lapels of his jacket. You tilt your head and ask what exactly he’s supposed to be dressed up as?

“A reputable business man- see, I even wore a clean shirt.” 

You say he looks pretty good and can’t help but laugh, and he says _there it is,_ tells you how you have a nice smile and you should use it more often. You hide your blushing face under the wide brim of your hat, shaking your head.

For months you’ve been hiding a growing affection for the old man– or at least you thought you were hiding it. You also thought it might pass after a while, but he was always doing things to keep you from forgetting how much you liked him, like bringing you coffee when you worked nights, or donuts in the morning, or the way he looks at you sometimes like you’ve done something funny when you haven’t done anything at all.

“Hey, kid, can I get past ya?”

When you look up he’s no longer on the other side of the counter, but instead is standing right beside you. You turn and find you’re eye to tie with Stan, and you go a little red in the face as you wonder how long he’s been there without you noticing. No stranger to feeling like you’re taking up more space than necessary, you take a step back and lean against the counter. The height difference is much more obvious when you’re standing right in front of the man, who has at least a foot on you if not more. He leans down for a moment to put something beneath the counter before popping back up with a smile, his fez tumbling off his head. You grab it before it rolls off the counter and, without thinking, reach up to place it on his head.

You only have a second to think about how close you are before his lips are pressing against yours, a hand on your cheek. You stare wide-eyed at his face as your heart attempts to jump out of your chest, and when you try to talk you only mumble against his lips, feeling the scratch of his stubbly skin on yours. He pulls back and takes his hand away, looking concerned.

“Hey, I’m sorry, kid, I shouldn’t have-” he starts, and you squeak out a, “N-no, it’s fine!” You’re surprised at yourself only slightly more than you’re surprised at him. The worried look on his face melts away into a smile and he sighs in relief, taking off his fez to scratch his head.

“For a second there I thought you didn’t want to-”

“No, I _want_ to!” You say, mortified at your own eagerness. “Sorry, I’m just…n-nervous,” you explain, grabbing the hem of your skirt in both hands. He chuckles and places a hand on your cheek, and you find yourself instinctively leaning into the touch. This time when he kisses you it’s much slower, and you can taste the coffee you’ve both been drinking. You don’t know what to do with your hands so you reach up and grab the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. He chuckles and it rumbles deep in his chest and against your lips.

When he moves closer and pushes you back against the counter, his hand on your hip, you break away to take a breath. He kisses the corner of your mouth and your jaw, then your neck, and the noise that escapes your open mouth is both embarrassing and just loud enough for him to hear.

“Mr. Pines…” you breathe, staring up at the ceiling in a haze as you feel his hand slide down your hip and beneath the hem of your skirt. You let out a shuddering breath as he kisses your throat and presses against you with his body, feeling the strength, the size of him. You can tell by the way he touches you that he knows what he’s doing, and it feels so good to be with someone who knows what they’re doing, since you really don’t.

“ _S-Stan,_ ” you whimper as his hand slides up your thigh and between your shaking legs, pressing his fingers up against you, against the tights. His other hand is on your chest, and he slides his fingers down the low cut front of your shirt, his hand groping over your bra, too eager to push it out of the way.

“W-wait,” you gasp, head thrown back, and you tug at the front of his jacket. He pulls back and you take a moment to catch your breath, head swimming. “It’s…”

Stan leans down to kiss your forehead, removing your witch hat to run his hand back through your hair. “What, is it your first time?” He chuckles, like it’s a joke. 

“Yes..”

x

In the living room, where he explains you’ll be much more comfortable, you start losing your clothes. He first tosses his jacket onto his chair, then helps you undo the back of your skirt and petticoat and they fall to the floor where you stand. His hands on your hips help pull down your tights and the fishnets beneath them, slowly pulling them off, and as he kneels in front of you and kisses your thighs you thank the powers that be that you wore your cute underwear.

He helps you sit back in his chair and, kneeling between your legs and framed by the tv light behind him, slides a hand beneath the hem of your shirt and pulls it up to your bra. He kisses your soft stomach and you blush even more if possible, hiding your face. Strong, sure hands, so different from your own, grip your thighs. He kisses the soft, warm skin there, his stubbly chin scratching in a way you think you could really get used to. You think you should feel shame, maybe, at the fact that he’s the only person who’s ever touched you this way, but you don’t. You don’t think you could. You like him too much to feel that way.

Your stomach flips as he helps you out of your underwear, which land somewhere on the other side of the room, and the way he looks at you now is so embarrassing you think you might just melt into a puddle and disappear right there. Just when you think he might change his mind, he dives between your legs with the enthusiasm of a starving man at a buffet.

You let out a cry and lift your legs for him, though he’s already lifting them over his shoulders, hands grabbing your thighs to pull you closer. You gasp and grab two handfuls of his hair as his tongue slides up between your lips, circling the sensitive bud of your clit before he starts sucking on it. You can’t help but whimper and cry his name, or what might be his name, mixed in with what are probably other words. You can’t really tell, but it doesn’t matter. His fingers dig into the soft skin of your hips as he sucks and you pull his head closer to you with a long, low moan.

One hand leaves your hip and slips between your legs, and he sinks his middle finger between your hot, wet lips. He laps at your clit as he fingers you, slowly at first, and you’re already so wet his finger slides in and out of you easily.

“S-S-Stan... _f…fu…I c...can't_...” you whimper, unable to find the words, and he only smiles up at you from between your legs and curls two fingers inside of you now, two fingers much larger than your own. His other hand slides beneath your bra and engulfs your soft breast, his rough thumb sliding across the sensitive skin of your nipple, teasingly slow. Your thighs tremble on either side of his head as he fucks you with his fingers, breathing hot against your clit as he laps at it hungrily.

When you come you cry his name, pulling at a fistful of hair with one hand while the other grips the arm of the chair, your thighs holding the sides of his head, and even when you’re clenching tight against his fingers he doesn’t stop until you cry out, overstimulated and shaking. When you finally go limp, legs splayed, head resting back against the chair in a daze, he only looks up at you with a grin. He lays gentle kisses on your trembling thighs and up on your stomach, pushes himself up to lean in and kiss you again. His mouth is open and your lips open for him, tasting yourself on his tongue. He pulls back and brushes the hair away from your damp forehead, cupping your cheek as he kisses your forehead.

When you have the strength to move again, he has you up on your knees on the chair, your arms resting over the back, your legs spread. You look back at him as he presses himself against you, grinding against you with his bulge. He reaches beneath you and feels the soft expanse of your stomach, holds you there with one hand while the other cups your breast, his breath hot on your neck as he tells you how long he’s wanted to do this, how he couldn’t help himself, how when you walked in that night he knew he couldn’t wait to fuck you. You gasp as he groans this into your ear, rocking his hips into you.

“S-Stan,” you whimper, closing your eyes, your cheek pressed against the couch, against his jacket resting there. “I-I…Please, _please…_ ”

“I know what you want,” he breathes, reaching between the two of you to unzip his pants. He slides them down along with his boxers, kicks them away, and when he presses himself back against you, skin to skin, you can feel the head of his cock brush against your sensitive lips. You press your face into his jacket and groan as he rocks his hips against you, teasingly dragging his cock up against you, sliding it between your lips. You push back against him with a whine and he kisses the back of your neck, and he helps position you with one hand on your hip, pulling you back against him. He tells you to spread your thighs more and you do, eager and willing to do whatever he wants.

When the head of his cock enters you for the first time you gasp, the feeling so different than his fingers, so different from yours. He thrusts his hips up into you and you cry out as he fills you, feeling the stretch of him inside of you. He holds himself against you and tells you how good you’re doing, how _good_ it feels, and as he slowly pulls his hips back you let out a whimper, fingers digging into the material of the chair.

His hips thrust against you, his cock sinking deeper into you, faster now. The sound of skin on skin is broken only by his deep groans, the man purring your name into your ear, and your own wordless cries for him to go faster, _faster, **fuck,** Stan, please, faster!_

“Look at you, your first time, huh?” He chuckles and kisses the back of your neck, holding onto your hips as he thrusts into you. “You love it, don’t ya? Tell me you love it,” he breathes into your ear.

“I l-love…I l..I love it, _fuck, **fuck,**_ oh, _f… **fuck,** S-Stan!_ ” 

He grunts in response and bucks his hips harder up against you, burying himself inside of you. His fingers slide between your thighs and circle the hard nub of your clit, wet and hot and throbbing. He’s close now, he tells you, he’s going to come. _Tell me you want it_ , he grunts in your ear.

“F-fuck, St…Stan, I..I want it, _p-please, please! **Fuck!**_ ” You cry as you come again, crying out his name as he fucks you against the chair, and you feel yourself clench around the hardness of his cock, and then a new sensation, warmth spilling into you and out of you as he keeps fucking you, and he holds your hips and groans your name as he comes inside of you.

You’re left a shuddering, shaking mess as he pulls out of you a minute later, and you groan as you feel him slip out, leaving you open and wet, dripping onto the couch. He helps you stand and then he sits, and you sit in his lap, leaning your head against his shoulder, your body limp. You stay there for a while, his lips pressed against your forehead, his arms around you.

Later, when you can both stand, you find your clothes and then the bathroom, cleaning yourselves. You shower together, of course, to save water, and you don’t feel as nervous as you had before. Being with someone who loves your body has made it easier to share it with them, you find, as he presses you against the shower wall and kisses you deeply. You both close up the Shack that night and go to bed together, wrapped in each other's arms. Even better, you still get overtime.


End file.
